


Ten Years Later

by midnightecho



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Explicit Language, Fantasizing, Irwin's P.O.V., M/M, mention of masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightecho/pseuds/midnightecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irwin has continued with his life for 10 years going over and over what happened between Dakin and himself, but still can't shake the regret that it didn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Years Later

My life had been normal after that year. Well, that _term,_ to be more accurate; but it certainly felt like a year. And I don’t suppose I can use the word ‘normal’ either. Nobody can, really. Such an overused word, considering it can never be defined as one thing or another. People use it so freely to describe their own regularities, whether that be a return to a routine after some event, maybe what society deems to be normal – or rather what they deem society to see as normal. My point here is, ‘normal’ probably isn’t the right word to describe my life since then. But it certainly feels dull and monotonous in comparison.

We never had a year quite like those Oxford boys. Sure, we’ve had some smart kids, and some have made it to the top, but they’ve never been quite so incredibly smart, quick or damn cocky. Most of them had dropped by the school after graduation to let us know, to thank us for teaching them – all apart from Dakin.

I haven’t seen Dakin since Hector’s funeral. He graduated a few years ago (Posner told us with pride shining in his eyes) but we never heard from the man himself. I wish we had; that way at least I might have got some closure. He didn’t speak to me once after the accident, only gave me solemn looks and walked away whenever he saw me.

And I tried to get over him. God, did I try. I fucked girls, I fucked guys, I wanked my fantasies of him away… But they were never gone. Even when I had other relationships, other pupils, I still found myself thinking about him. His bloody hair that he adjusted to just the right degree of untidiness (well look at that, a compound adjective) every day, the smirk when he talked back, the bluntness he could talk with that worked wonders, and that strong, intense gaze that shattered my guard and reduced me to a nervous, incompetent wreck of a man.

It was in this very room, where I now sit marking the latest round of dull, regular essays, over by that old grimy window, that he asked me to suck him off. Right there that I, like some reckless teenager, decided that satisfying my lust for a boy that I taught was better than definitely keeping my job. Every time I sit here I curse myself for losing my grip on that moment, for allowing something as selfish as that to come out of my mouth. But at the same time, I regret that it never happened – I’ll always want to know what it would’ve been like. Whether I would’ve been caught. Whether I’d have lost the job I love along with my dignity and self-respect. I tell myself that not pursuing it after the accident was the right thing to do, but bloody base instincts tell me I missed out.

And ten years later, it still haunts me.

Of course, I’ve managed to push the whole situation to the back of my mind, occupy myself with ‘normal’ life, attempt other relationships – none of which have held, convince myself that it’s all in the past and there’s nothing can be done. I’ve moved on, as much as I ever will, but I’ll never lose that twinge of guilt and self-disgust mixed with my fluster every time I remember it.  
A sharp knock at the classroom door makes me realise that I’ve been staring at that window for goodness knows how long, and I glance down at the handwritten essay on the desk to see that the ink from my pen has leaked all over it. I curse and pull a tissue from the box on the desk to try and clean up the mess as I hear the familiar creak of the door’s hinge. Feet step once, twice into the room and stop, but the arrival says nothing.

“Yes?” I direct at them with a harsh, frustrated impatience as I continue my attempt to rescue the pages. The ink has seeped through the layers of paper, I realise to my dismay, and I fumble for more tissues and succeed in knocking several items off my desk.

“Still, get flustered this easily, do ya?”

I stop. That voice. Oh God, that voice, that’s whispered in my ear in my dreams, taunted me, taking me back all those years ago and making them seem as though they were only yesterday.

My eyes dart towards the door, my insides panicked and exhilarated and oh so hopeful, my breath already coming faster, heartbeat pounding in my ears.

And there he stands. Cool and collected as the last time he stood there, asking those inappropriately direct questions – yes, he’s older, his face has matured to be a little more angular and his hair is styled to a more dignified fashion (but still with that hint of a muss), but he’s still clean-shaven and that keeps him fresh and young, along with that teasing glint in his eye and the slight turn of his mouth.

I knew he’d been employed as a tax lawyer, but I didn’t know he’d look this good as one. His suit is perfectly tailored, emphasising those broad shoulders and slim waist, even showing the tone of his damn arms. A sleek briefcase hangs loosely on his fingers, his other hand is in his pocket, and as a result, pulling the material of his _pantalons_ just that bit tauter. One leg is crossed casually in front of the other, the toe point of his dazzlingly shined shoes resting on the ground.

As he watches me take in his appearance, stumbling over a response that is comprehensible let alone intelligent (which never finds its way out of my mouth), his lips spread to a glorious smirk. “Fancy going for that drink now?”

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a second (Explicit) part concerning what happens when they 'go for drinks', but I'm not sure yet.


End file.
